John Doe: Second Wind
by dappers
Summary: A deep-cover agent with seemingly with no reliable recollection of who he is finds himself fallen from the Presidium's simulated sky on a job he never agreed to. With more adventure, trials, and broken bones than he ever wanted in store, the usually-capable and newly christened John Doe struggles to navigate this brave new world. 1/3 Person POV, character shifting - AU, ME2 staging
1. Waking Up

_A quick pre-read note: this is the first (and likely last) time I've ever done a first-person POV, and really it's just a byproduct of my boredom. Writing in the relaxed manner it yields is … well, relaxing. Take it as you will._

_Also, this is not an SI, but certainly an AU, and as such I might modify the canon universe to my liking - Promise I'll try not to overdo it though._

* * *

Do you know what a hundred volts feels like? No? That's okay. Neither do I. Not yet, at least.

But I do know the smell of crackling flesh and burnt hair. It's not very pleasant. In fact, after a while when you're really starved you begin to think someone must be burning an otherwise perfectly good steak, and how much you'd enjoy eating that steak either way. But then, you realize that the 'steak' you're smelling is your own skin, and that's just not quite as appealing.

And do you know how sand feels when it's in every nook of your body, every breath of air you gasp for? When it's stuffed in your boots, under your toenails, or under the waistband of your pants? It grits into your skin, and every tiny movement you make, every lungful of air you breathe, it chews in.

How about the smoothness of your gums on your tongue, when you're tasting the bloodied gaps where some of those shiny white molars you used to have existed? I'd tell you, but I'm trying to ignore it myself.

You see, I was in a bit of sticky situation to say the least – emphasis on was. I wasn't _supposed _to get to caught, but then again very few spies ever really intend to get caught. In the interest of fairness, I'd like to make note that this was only my third mission out; this sort of shit isn't supposed to happen until at least the fifth.

So what's it like to be in an out of control, free-falling-while-burning helicopter?.. Well, It's actually kind of pleasant. Sure, you've only got a few seconds or minutes left to exist, but once you resign to your fate everything seems real slow, almost kind of peaceful in a horrible way. From where I sat, holding onto the edges of a seat parallel in the chopper, it was all sandy plateau and orange-brown buttes rising beneath a blinding and dry sun, setting just a hair above the horizon. It cast the clouds in pink and purple with streaks of burnt red, and there wasn't a cloud in sight. Granted, everything was blurred as the mechanical beast spun round and around, but it still almost looked too perfect to be real, and I wondered briefly if this was all just some dream; but if it wasn't, I think I was okay with that.

It's funny: I remember thinking it was a miracle that I didn't get chopped into tiny bits by the rotor as the helicopter bucked me out.

Some shitty miracle.

* * *

I groaned. That was the only word for the animal-like noise I made, and I don't mean that in a good way. One long, pained and wheezy groan. Rather than the murky numbness I had since learned to expect of my limbs, there was fire. There was fire _everywhere_, from the tips of my toes to my very scalp. Not just the hot kind of fire, either, but the kind that really let you know it was _there_. Hotter than hot fire?

But I was alive.

My body proved it to me beyond doubt when I nearly screamed out against my will, against the pain that seemed infused in my very bones, and as I did the world bloomed in my eyes. Colors; blues, whites, reds, greens, they swam like reflecting pools, blurry edged and shapeless. My hands rose unbidden to my eyes, scrubbing the bleariness from them in a fit of panic. I wish they wouldn't have.

No longer was there sandy buttes and plateaus. There was no helicopter wreckage, no fires like those that I felt along my limbs. Sure, there was a brilliant light above me, but it sure wasn't the sun or the 'light at the end of the tunnel'. It was just bright, and harsh. Artificial, maybe. Two blurry figures stood far above me on some sort of overpass, but I considered them for only a moment before moving on.

I rolled over, still cursing what my body felt like, and acutely aware of each and every tendon, ligament, bone, and joint in my body. My eyes seemed unwilling to see anymore, so I compensated with my other senses: Cracked glass fractured like frosted spiderwebs and crinkled below me as I shifted my weight, and I could feel some cool metallic surface beneath my finger tips as my hands blundered about. The distinct smell of purification and industry was all around me, like fresh rubber and copper – I gingerly tasted my lips, and confirm that they too were tainted with blood.

It was the sounds, though, that struck me as odd. Have you ever heard something so totally foreign and odd that your mind is simply incapable of rationalizing what it is, or what's producing it? I felt that way now, about the pulsing whirrs and high but hollow whistling that zoomed past me. It kind of reminded me of little cars moving about somewhere above, except the exhaust notes were ringing far too high for a car.

As if by blessed thought, my vision cleared once more through the swimming colors. I wish it hadn't.

I knew now what that ringing thing was; it was a car, sort of, but instead of rolling on a surface like my consciousness demanded it ought to do, it was gliding through the air like a bird. _That couldn't be right_, I thought, and I dismissed it as a trick of the eye.

With a strenuous effort I push myself up, oddly confused at how none of the bones in my body felt broken, but thankful all the same that the helicopter hadn't chewed me to pieces; in fact, the helicopter was gone. Below me, where I imagined it ought to have been, was some sort of glass cockpit, which belonged to another one of those strange flying things – which suddenly became all too real, and most certainly not a trick of the eye.I forced my breathing to stabilize, knowing there was a perfectly rational explanation for this... Not that I knew what 'this' was.

Somewhat hesitantly, I looked up and around, curiousity winning out over that awful sense of anticipation. I really wish I hadn't.

My senses were correct as far as the cold metals and purified air went, but I could have sworn my eyes were lying to me when before me stood a ungainly tall... _thing_. It had a face of stone or perhaps metal with high cheek bones, and the space between its narrow eyes was flat and angled much like the nose below it. Hair-like protuberances thicker than my fingers and made of the same murky gray stemmed from beneath a separated forehead and swept back like they were caught in the wind, and stranger still was the berthed hood-like collar bone that protected its exposed neck.

And, it was staring at me, with those beady eyes. In short: one part foreign, and ninety-nine parts terrifying. _And it talked_. Or at least, that's what I assumed when I heard the bird-like squawks issuing in time with its bobbing jaw. What else would it be? As it spoke, I felt my body literally reeling, and I likely would have toppled into it had a hand not steadied me.

It was humanish, dainty and woman-like, and more than that, it was a relative comfort until my already overtaxed awareness recognized that the skin was blue and brushed with just the lightest of scales. I followed the hand to the sleeve it stretched from (which was some sort of strange dress/jumpsuit combination), then the sleeve to the shoulder and finally the shoulder to the face, and I let out a whimper of what I refuse to call fear. It was blue – _she _was blue. And I say 'she' not because I knew it to be a woman, but because her features were mostly feminine, though where hair should be there were more protuberances like the tall one next beside me, except hers were beset with the the same faint pattern of scales.

Did I mention she was blue?

I shoved them away as I scrambled to my feet – or, more appropriately, fell onto my ass –, not recognizing or otherwise not caring that my boots were missing. Vertigo took over again as blood surged into my head, a million and a half things streaming through my brain – but mostly just a long "_Aaaah_!" – and I wavered unsteadily on my feet. To their credit, the blue woman and her crowd stepped back as they looked at me in what I could only assume was one of those "I'm concerned about you but I won't come near you" sort of ways.

"Where, the hell, am I?" I asked as one of them gripped my arm to keep me from falling over. I appreciated the sentiment, truly, but the thing's talons were sharp as knives, and it was only because my body was refusing to obey my mind that I did not bat it away and start freaking out. Whether or not the thing understood me was unclear; how do you read the face of... of an alien? Was that what they were? Aliens? Or was this just another simulation?

The only acknowledgment my question received was in the form of that harsh and guttural noise from before, which I soon figured was courtesy of the one with talons, and a curious flute-like sing-song sound that I began associating with the blue woman.

My thoughts and questions paused mid-stream as I willed my conscious clear, and found to my utmost disturbance that there was familiarity associated with both of them. Like a long-lost childhood toy you find in a dusty attic, old as it may be, or a memory that had been forgotten with age, there was an inkling of recognition. It didn't settle right, either way.

The tall one squawked more, reaching for something either on its wrist or behind him, I didn't know. What I did know was that it had released its hold on me, and as soon as it had, and before I could stop it my body took action of what felt like its own accord as I lashed out at it. Familiar or not, I was fucking scared.

It felt like I punched a steel wall, and I felt my knuckles splinter and shatter against the crest that circled its upper torso – the stream of curses I let loose would have given a religious man a heart attack. Redness flushed into my hand and after the near unbearable sharp pain, I felt it quickly go numb from shock. In the back of my mind, I knew it would take months to heal, which really sucked, but at least one thing was clear: fighting my way out was not an option. Instead, I did the next best thing.

You guessed it: I ran. I ran like never before, and I was an alright runner in my time.

Behind me, I could hear the flutter of commotion as I leaped and shoved through the gathered figures, but their protests faded quickly. I don't actually know where I was running, or towards what I was running, but even if I did I think I would have forgotten it immediately as I stared around wide-eyed. My feet weren't slapping against the ground, they were slapping against metal plating. That metal plating was practically seamless with looming buildings, disrupted with neon sign boards advertising in some unyielding language of gentle curves and dots. Even further overhead was a clear blue sky, that was normal at least, but then even the air I gasped and heaved was crisp and tasted sterile, like the underground bunkers that I had once visited a long while ago; it was recycled. It clicked then; I was underground! That's why everything was constructed out of metal sheeting, and why the entire place seemed contained in one long hallway. Or at least, so I thought.

Whether or not anyone or anything gave chase I did not know, for it felt like the entire world was blurring around me as I ran – I think I realized that my eyes were swimming in tears from the pain in my hand and up much of my arm, but it was a long while before I made the effort to clear my vision.

The scenery had changed; no longer were the metals in the floor and walls a strict silver, but now a soft cream lined with brown. I was in some sort of building, or perhaps an open-air lobby, but one thing stuck out: the writing on the wall was in English. Comprehensible, wonderfully clear English.

_Human Embassies_ it read, in thick black font. That was a sense of familiarity I was comfortable with, even as I found myself suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. Or rather, my own clothes; I didn't recognize them, or at least most of them. I was wearing some sort of close-cut trouser, and it was smooth like silk but hard like woven polymer, and I thought I recognized the gray tee I wore as the one from the guard, if somewhat cleaner. A pair of good ol' jeans would have done a number for my sanity.

But that was only one of several things I could not explain. Those funny looking things, for example, and for that I sought out the nearest person I could find – I should clarify: The nearest clearly _human _person I could find. It helped a great deal that I was amongst many in this building labeled as a 'human embassy'. What kind of game were they playing at?

When I finally found one that did not immediately dismiss me in a hurry, I descended on him kind of like a hawk. A short and sophisticated man, but he too was dressed funny, in some sort of creme-colored robe. Possibly even a onesie, though I debated what sane man would wear a onesie into public.

"Hey, you," I wheezed out to catch his attention. His reaction to me was likely much like mine was to him; wide eyed, both slightly unsure and curious at the same time and like _I_ was the freak here. Maybe it was just the shoelessness. "Where the hell am I? You speak English, right?" I demanded as I grabbed for his shoulder with my non-defunct hand, etiquette disregarded as blood pounded in my ears.

"Yes, yes of course, now unhand me you miserable wretch! This is the Presidium, aren't you supposed to somewhere like the _Wards_?" He snapped back with a sneer. Evidently I had just manhandled some rich old dandy, as he set about brushing off some invisible grime from his shirt. Ah, right. I'd forgotten about that whole gaping holes in my teeth and all that bruising and fun stuff. I probably looked a bit like a zombie.

'Presidium' and 'Wards' made little to no sense to me, though again that minute sense of familiarity tingled in the back of my mind. I knew my geography well, but even someone who'd hardly looked at a map knew those didn't sound like towns, or cities. Perhaps underground bunkers were named differently.

Before I could further question him, the man slipped away while screaming bloody murder about something or another to no one in particular. I leaned over, hands on bent knees as I caught my raggedy breath. This wasn't making any sense. I had been in a helicopter what seemed like moments ago, on my way to a fiery death at the base of a mountain. I knew for certain I had no parachute, so there was no saving me. _Hell, I had made my peace,_ I thought.

"There, he's right there!" I jerked my head up at the exclamation, just in time to see the man from before pointing straight at me in the company of two of those tall bird types, whom were clad in some sort of deep blue exoskeleton. My hand throbbed something horrible at the sight of them.

_Oh mother._ Without a second thought I began running again, sprinting for all I was worth, breath be damned. I wondered for a moment if I should have stuck around, but my unbidden terror quickly overtook that thought. They looked vicious as hell, and even if my hand wasn't broken in a dozen places I doubted I could take one on.

_First the hand, now my legs are burning, _I nearly groaned as I ducked into an alleyway as the booted aliens thundered just behind me in hot pursuit. My breath was ragged enough before, but now? It was akin to inhaling bits of razor blades.

I risked a glance behind, and evidently the natural height of those bird-like things was proving a readily-apparent advantage; even though I had started with a near hundred meter lead, they were closing,_ fast_, and so I did my best to put on a burst of speed. It lasted a few seconds at best, but the alley opened up to another wide sort of plaza, and the sights were so immediately breathtaking I quickly lost any advantage I had gained.

There were people and the other things that were milling about. New ones, too, my mind reluctantly took in as my breath caught in my throat. Big, fat things that walked on all fours, shaking the very floor beneath them as they moved. Short, diminutive and distinctly amphibian creatures with bug eyes and stout horns, and worst of all, something that looked like not unlike a snapping turtle, if a turtle had a thousand or so pounds of muscle all squared away in its shell.

I nearly fainted right there, and probably would have if it weren't for the knife-like talons that seized both my shoulders simultaneously. I cried out as I turned my head, seeing my two pursuers glaring down at me like all the hate in the world wouldn't do me justice, and my body once more acted on instinct. This time it was smarter instinct, as one sharp elbow met the others head despite the clear height difference, where I approximated its jaw would be. Something snapped, likely both in my arm and hopefully in its face too, but it gave way anyway as the tall alien tumbled away, talons clutching its face.

The other was not so easily fallible, and it had quickly seized my entire arm in a vice-like grip. I struggled against it for a moment, before it became perfectly clear my arm was totally useless for me now. _Fuck_, those talons genuinely burned, but I ignored it for a time as I dug my heels in, cocked my knees, and pushed back with all my adrenaline-fueled might. I heard something go _crack! _But I wasn't sure if it was another of my bones or its.

It did the trick, as I and the thing collided with a wall and tumbled over each other. Unfortunately I landed on my ruined arm, my hand protesting sharply as I used it to break my fall, and my vision swam and dripped as I wished so much that I had not tried punching that one from before.

Whatever damage I had done to them was clearly short term, as they groggily fought to rise to their two-clawed feet, and I sprinted away, still clutching one hand in close to my stomach. Though my arms were in a sorry state, my legs felt relatively okay, and I made to move on quickly. Fuck me sideways, but I needed to get that splinted and in a cast as soon as possible.

"Stop!" Something behind me called, and as I turned I realized it was the one I had just elbowed in the face. What the hell, they spoke English? But I spied a little glowing interface above ones wrist – another culture shock, if you will – and figured it had to be some sort of translator, lest my elbow had somehow imbued it with a new language (Don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty strong guy, but I'm no magician). No way was something that squawked before speaking perfect English immediately afterward. Out of unbidden curiosity I looked down at my own wrist, the human equivalent of that thing's. Funnily enough, there was a similar sort of bracelet on my own wrist. It was a gunmetal-gray band of metal latched over my wrist, kind of like a metal watchband, but mine was not glowing with floaty things like theirs. I think I was jealous.

The single word of English had a sort of calming effect on me, and though I by no means intended to obey it, I slowed to a backwards walk as I watched it slowly climb to its 'feet'. "Stop that human!" It finished. And here I had debated sticking around to find out what was going on.

My lungs demanded I stop to get some air, but this time I could clearly see a gun in its three clawed hand – some strange polygonal design with strips of light lining its twin barrels. _Fuck. That. _I thought as I turned, muscles spazzing as I demanded they run again.

If I had been paying a little more attention, I might have noticed the red-haired woman that had sidled up behind me, nearly a half of a head shorter than me. I might have noticed the weird guns mounted to the even weirder suit of polymer plating that she wore, and I might have noticed the scowl on par with Clint Eastwood's that told me that my ass was done for.

Instead, all I noticed was how painfully solid the gauntleted fist that was inches away from my face looked, and how quickly the ground and blackness alike rose up to meet me as the woman landed a blow square on my jaw.


	2. Assault and Evasion

I, like many, had experienced a feeling or two of déjà vu in my life. Most times I enjoyed it; it feels triumphant somehow. But also like many, it was a simple matter of figuring out where you had seen or experienced the 'precognition' before. Often, it was a memory of touching or feeling something, others it was a subtle scent in the air.

This time around it was pretty simple for me: blooming colors, harsh lighting, lots of blurry edges; metal under my arms where my head rested. They must have really liked that sort of thing down here.

I rose my head from my arms, tentatively looking around and wondering if I would see the same figures from before. To my utmost relief, the room was empty, apart from the table and two chairs, and silent too. I'm pretty sure they were just products of an overly active imagination, but by god did the pounding in my head feel real. I reached to cradle my head, but found an extremely unusual deterrent: some sort of handcuff, I guess, only these weren't made of aluminum and chained together. No, they were apparently made of nothing, and chained together with _light_.

Pretty sure my heart rate spiked to levels that should have killed me just then. Holograms didn't _exist_, but as I pulled against the shackles, they certainly felt like they must have. Beneath the glow they cast, I could see slight discoloration on my wrists and much of my right hand – purple and yellow bruising, but it was faded. I gingerly stretched my fingers out; _Stiff, yes, but otherwise functional, _I thought as I looked closer. Thin red scars criss-crossed the skin of my knuckles, and extended an inch or so in either direction from there, disappearing under the gauze-like wrap that covered the greater part of my palm but left my fingers bare. A thin silvery layer had been squeezed under it, with the firmness of silly putty, but I had no clue what that was.

I wasn't exactly sure how my hand had healed up so quickly, and I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it didn't change much because I still had no idea how to break out of handcuffs that shouldn't technically work at all. Light wasn't solid like the holograms felt, but there I was, immobilized by it all the same.

Not that I would know where to go even if I could open them. Looking around, it was pretty clear I was in a holding cell: To be my sides were cold steel walls. Below me, cold steel floors. Above me, cold steel ceilings. In fact, the only disruption to the box of metallic plating was one of those mirrors that I assumed only reflected on my side. At the very least, there was no sand. That was a relief, and in the mirror I watched the small grin split across my own face.

I looked like pretty beat up, not going to lie. My nose had been broken sometime recently, if the scabbed splits in the skin on my nose were any indication. Most of the grime had been washed from my face some time as well, as no longer was there any of the dirt or grime that marred the stubble on my jaw, or the only very slightly overgrown crew cut above it. I turned my head side to side as I watched, and beneath the closely shorn hair on the sides of my head I could see bruising and some thin lacerations. Fortunately they weren't bad enough to mandate stitches, but that also meant no painkillers. I grimaced as I looked down; they had put me in the single most orange jumpsuit I had ever seen. Some things never change, I suppose.

My once-over was interrupted as a tired looking man with a buzz cut and neat moustache entered the room through a sliding door, one I thought had been a wall. I was pleased to note that the man's skin was perfectly normal and _not _blue.

He settled opposite of me, pulling out the chair and easing his lean bulk down. Most interesting was that he was paging through something on what appeared to be a wrist mounted computer of some sort, like the metal band I had on before – I confirmed it was missing at that moment. Semi-transparent holograms floated above it; little letters and pictures that I couldn't focus on quick enough to read backwards. I think I was a little jealous, again.

"What, never seen an omnitool before?" The man asked, staring me down through the orange glow of whatever he was reading. A tape of fabric on his uniform identified him only as 'Powell'.

I chuckled weakly. "Not up close." I said truthfully. "In fact, I'm expecting to wake up any moment now."

For his part, Powell merely cocked a heavy brow. "Wake up? Huh. This is life, boy, not a dream." He muttered something akin to 'damn offworlders', but I wasn't paying enough attention to catch it fully. "You came in with one, you know. Was all high tech and such, our analyst couldn't get a peep from it. That means I don't know the first thing about you, so let's start simple: What's your name?"

Even a tone-deaf man could realize that he wasn't really asking, so much as ordering, but I was still curious about the little device – plus, I never was good with authority. "How does it work?" I asked, both as a distraction to his question, and to answer some of my own.

"Hell if I know boy, and you don't get to ask questions here. That's my job." He repeated, clearly undeterred and unimpressed with my meek attempt. His voice was booming, but not necessarily loud, and tinged with some sort of drawl. "Accordin' to my notes here, you came in with a dozen or more broken or shattered bones, a fractured nose, numerous bruises and lacerations, and some missing teeth." He finished with a chuckle. I'm not sure if he was impressed with the list, but he certainly looked it.

Powell took a pause as he read something else on his screen, and I noticed the slight wrinkles of surprise on his forehead. "Legally, we are required to rend medical aid when necessary, and we have as you may have noticed," Trust me, I had. "Funny thing though, you see, you didn't come up in any of our DNA or facial profiling records. We even went all the way through our fingerprint databases, still nothing." That much I expected. Spies didn't technically exist, which was convenient if you ever got a traffic ticket. "So, you mind telling me where you're from? And, while you're at it, what did you say your name was?"

I laughed a bit, albeit internally. It was always amusing when this sort of thing happened, watching people search tirelessly and then getting frustrated. I mean, there wasn't much I was allowed to do to help them, so I might as well enjoy it anyway.

"... Okay then, 'John Doe' it is." Powell muttered as he typed it into his omnitool, sounding rather displeased. That solved one of my problems, at least, and I didn't make an attempt to correct him. Besides, 'John Doe' was a label for unknown persons anyway. "So, Mr Doe, why is it I've got two accounts of evasion and two for assaulting Citadel Security officers? What was goin' on in that head o' yours?"

I had no idea what Citadel Security was, but I knew that he had just confirmed that what I had hoped had been a day dream wasn't. "Assaulted and evaded? Citadel Security? What were those things chasing me?" The questions poured out against my will.

Powell only snorted. "Now, I'm no huge fan of the turians myself, but we're gon' keep it civil in here." He shook his head as he scanned his document once more. "I have it from several eyewitnesses that you uh... Huh. Well, you fell from a fourth floor apartment building, punched a turian, swore at an asari, roughhoused a district councilman, and then, like I said, evaded and assaulted two more turians. You really don't like them, do you?" He smirked, finding something apparently humorous. Maybe he approved.

I mulled the words 'turian' and 'asari' over, feeling that hesitant familiarity once more.

"Says here you got knocked on yer' ass by a woman, too, heh heh." Powell continued. "One Commander Shepard no – no less... Hang on, that's not right. Wait here a moment, Mr Doe."

As if I could do anything else. Any protest I might have considered would have fallen on deaf ears, as the man was out of his chair and walking out the door faster than I could say 'hot tamales', muttering things like "That can't be right" and "She's supposed to be dead." I had absolutely no clue what he was talking about, but the way he was going on about it made it sound like the undead were rising. I could only imagine things were about to get real strange in here.

The door didn't get to close fully before something appeared in it, and once more, I wish I hadn't provoked fate.

Really the only word for the figure that had slipped in carrying a duffel bag was 'amphibian', but if I was being slightly more honest, it reminded me more of a stretched out and extremely thin frog. Massive and bulbous black eyes watched me, I think, but I couldn't really tell because it appeared almost the entire eyeball was one enormous pupil.

Unlike the man, Powell, who was clad in an all blue uniform, this creature was wearing what appeared to be some sort of slim and streamlined armor, a subtle shade of dark green highlighted by twin gold streaks down the torso and arms. I watched as it sat itself, settling the bag on the table between us. It appeared to be a bit of a fashion statement, as well, as it matched with the thing's equally gray-green skin and black eyes. In short, it was kind of unsettling actually.

More unsettling was that while I knew I should be terrified of the thing sitting across from me, I wasn't. I mean, I was sitting with an alien, since there was no way a human could fit into a costume of that design without some serious physical deformities. I didn't like having to mask my discomfort, but I did anyway. It was a fact of the job: if you could not adapt, you died.

"Do you have it?" It spoke, quietly and tersely. There was a slightly deep croak tinging its words, but otherwise it was flawless English, and I wondered where the translation was coming from. What was more interesting was the way it spoke – like it was part of some big secret, something I was familiar with.

"If I did, would it get me out of here?" I responded in kind, after some deliberation. If I was being honest I had no clue what it was asking about, but not knowing was often part of the job.

My heart sank a bit when he (By then I had decided it was a he, if only because it seemed unnatural that something that ugly was a girl) shook his head. I liked to keep my stays in jail brief at most. "No, but, will help you escape." He continued, indicating the duffel he came in with before pausing and forcing eye contact. I didn't know where to look, exactly, so I winged it. "... _If _you have it."

"Everything I have was confiscated." I dismissed quickly, feeling that I knew where this was headed. He would be gone before I had a chance to make up a lie anyways.

But he didn't seem exactly perturbed. "Problematic, but not unforeseen." He responded after a moment's consideration. "You will retrieve it, then."

I snorted quietly, before realizing there was no humour in his demeanor. That, I was not expecting. "You want me to steal from a police station?" I asked in hushed tones like someone might overhear me but leaning forward in interest all the same. There was a reason people never broke into these places, after all.

"Prefer the term 'retrieve'." He corrected, as if there was a huge literal difference. I suppose there was, actually. "Will need these." He continued as he dug into the duffel and retrieved a pair of navy blue slacks and a matching collared shirt of an equally strange design, followed shortly by a pair of what looked like black jackboots. I recognized the uniform, as Powell had worn much the same. They even had a name tape stuck on them – _J. Wladyka_. A shame, as I was just beginning to like being John Doe.

"This will grant access to evidence room." He held up a card of transparent plastic, about the size of the credit card and inlaid with metallic lines of circuitry, as if showing it off before sliding it to my side of the table. There were no discernible markings on it, indicating it was likely custom made for the task at hand. "Will send coordinates to rendezvous when retrieved."

The entire transfer had been done in at most fifteen seconds, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see that he had already disappeared, leaving only the change of clothes, the little security card, and the hum of the door as it sealed shut. I had been about to ask how I was supposed to leave, cuffed as I was, when I realized the hologram of the cuffs had since evaporated into thin air, leaving only the tiny hardware box that I could accurately assume projected them.

I'd have to file that under my 'smooth as hell' rating later, but began tugging the orange clothing off and donning the new uniform anyway. Perhaps I should have been less surprised, but it still took me as odd that the clothes fit almost perfectly, and even had crisply ironed creases. I didn't trust him all that much, but I need hardly repeat that bit about gift horses and mouths.

The orange shirt and pants (and booties) I folded into a neat stack and placed on the chair, dropping the handcuff projector on top. It felt right to leave it all neatly stacked as if to say "Here, I don't need this anymore."

I took a quick look in the mirror, knowing that even the slightest discrepancy in appearance would land me in even deeper shit than when I started. There was one thing I was slightly more concerned about than the others, and as I hesitantly pulled the corners of my mouth back, I prepared for the worst. What I found was a pleasant surprise, to say the least: thirty-two perfectly ordered and gleaming white teeth. Those that had been ripped out had been replaced, and I couldn't tell the difference between an original and a fake, or if any of them were fake at all. Equipped with a good smile, I took a moment to run a hand through my hair to move it off my forehead before moving to the door.

True to his word, the security card swiped me out of the holding cell and into a gray-plated hall lined with a dozen or more doors, all of which I assumed were holding cells. Track lighting provided ample illumination, and I started down the hall quickly, trying to move like I had a purpose that wasn't quite so nefarious (and with an easy smile, since it was ungodly hard not to feel good about it). A guard in a booth at the end of the hallway nodded in greeting as I passed, and I guessed he mistook me for just another investigator questioning some poor bloke. I wondered for a moment how that thing got past him, but was perfectly okay letting him believe I was a cop otherwise.

The door opened with a swipe to what appeared to be a lobby; outside the tall windows were hundreds of people milling about on their daily routines, alien (and I'll admit saying that word still gave me trouble) or otherwise, few of which paid me any heed now that I was in 'regular' attire and not running about and punching people.

I'll be honest; I was really having a hard time justifying not just leaving the building without doing what Mr Man asked, especially considering how many armed officers there were. It was almost absurd, and seemed like every other one carried a weapon of some strange design... But then again, the thing had gotten into my holding cell easily enough. Who was to say he wasn't still watching?

Fuuuuck.

Somewhat unnerved by that, I glanced around, hoping against hope that there would be some sort of sign that said "Hey you, escaping prisoner, your stuff is this way!" Unsurprisingly, there was no such indication, which meant I was relying on wit alone – problematic, to say the least.

"... Commander Shepard, didn't think the rumors were true." I overheard from an older officer sitting at his desk a good ten meters away. I recognized the name, albeit only sort of; Powell had said she was supposed to be dead. He also mentioned the name in connection with the one who got me in this mess, and yes, I blamed her wholly.

"That's not disappointment I hear, is it, Bailey?" The red haired commander responded in kind. If it weren't for the charcoal gray armor, the guns, and perhaps some of the thin scars that were seriously _glowing _an angry red, I wouldn't have pegged her for a soldier at all. Her hair was tousled and a bit messy, hanging loose over her shoulders, and a thin patch of freckles dotted under her green eyes and across her nose. Altogether plain, but still; This was the woman who knocked me out cold? Fuck me, that wasn't something I'd likely get over any time soon. With any luck it'd be buried for the rest of time.

"No, not really." The man, Bailey, replied amusedly. He looked like he had been doing his job for a long time, and had one of those faces that seemed perpetually bored – and in this case, completely unsurprised. "Should have known something like death wouldn't hold you long. I suppose you're here for your belongings? They're locked up in evidence, this way." Bailey finished. I was pretty pleased how quickly that situation resolved itself, and I watched from afar as he stood and slightly limped his way through a thin crowd of officers and civilians alike.

"Yep," The commander responded, strangely chipper. I'll admit it was completely jarring not only to see her appearance versus her career, but the voice threw me off completely. She was a conglomerate of parts that didn't seem to fit together. "Is he here as well? I want to know why he was hacking my omnitool before he gets carted off somewhere." Shepard added as she followed the officer, and followed at a distance by myself. They stopped as they continued talking just out of earshot.

It might have been a bit pompous, but I didn't think it was far off the mark to assume I was the 'he' she was talking about. If I was right – which, c'mon, I was – things were going to be extremely hairy in a moment. Indeed, they only got worse as the pair turned about and began walking towards the holding cells – towards _me_.

Panic quickened my beating heart, and I searched for an out. There was an older woman causing a scene about some break in at her home, a few officers milling about, but otherwise nothing. I moved without real aim instead, walking quickly towards a bank of cubicles. It was still well within their path, but my hopes were that they wouldn't pick me out of the numerous officers dressed like I was. I ended up standing right in front of one of the cubicles, looking rather foolish as I glanced about aimlessly. With the lack of any reflective surface, it was proving to be a challenge keeping tabs on Shepard and Bailey without staring straight at them.

"Uh, can I help you?" A feminine voice asked from the desk before me. It belonged to a brunette, who, like everyone else in this building, looked pretty bored. In fact, I may have woken her up on accident. "You look new here, you from the fourth precinct?" She continued, apparently completely oblivious to my more-than-shifty look.

I took a deep breath, knowing I was only digging myself a deeper grave but somewhat desperate nonetheless, especially since the commander and captain were practically right on top of me. "Uh... Yeah, the fourth." I started hesitantly, before picking up a little. "I was told to come down here and get some files from evidence, but I'm a little lost ..." I prompted, even though I already knew roughly where I was heading, and adding an abashed smile at the end and hoping I didn't seem to obvious. Even I can admit, I'm not much of a conman sometimes.

"Yes, it's just down that hallway," She pointed towards the same hallway Shepard and company had been making their way to, and from her tone I got the feeling she didn't consider me the sharpest tool in the shed. "And then take a left at the second door."

I muttered a short thank-you as I waited just a second longer, somewhat annoyed that she had completely invalidated my reason for staying out of sight. Timing was on my side, though, as Shepard and company passed behind me just as I stepped away in the opposite direction. It was hard not turning around and double checking whether I had made a clean break or not, but listening closely I heard nothing that would indicate otherwise.

"... Punched him straight in the mouth, honestly didn't expect him to go down that easy." Ouch, there went some of my self esteem.

Bailey seemed on my side, though, at least sort of. "He broke officer Chatti's mandible with a single blow, that's gotta count for something..." Well, that was at least somewhat encouraging. It turns out I wasn't a complete mess up.

It was all I could do to not sprint to my destination, as I was especially worried about how soon they would discover I was missing. A quick wave of the security card granted me access to the storeroom, and the automated system spat out the 'it' that the sneaky bastard had requested: that omnitool I found on my wrist, much like Powell's, except matte black. On closer inspection, it actually looked pretty slick, though I was curious to know if their was a difference between the silver and black version.

There were few other things in the box, chiefly another card-sized slip of plastic printed with the name 'Alex Hammer'. That cover name had an awful ring to it, and I made a mental note to request better ones.

Nonetheless, I scooped up the contents of the box and dumped them in my pockets, before pushing the container back and sending it down the conveyor line. A bit of tinkering and mostly staring it down, and I realized it came apart like a clam shell to clamp over a wrist, using what I could only assume to be teensy tiny motors to adjust itself snugly.

I felt pretty foolish standing there waving my hand over it and searching for an on switch, but hey, I was curious. It wasn't until I pressed a thumb fully on a smooth section that a familiar orange sheen materialized in the air, curved around my wrist like a rather wide cuff. Once more true to his word, rendezvous coordinates blinked into existence on the screen, though it took me a remarkable amount of time to be able to focus my eyes on it. The arrow was especially helpful, considering I had no idea how to use coordinates here, and doubly so since they weren't in a format I understood.

It was at that precise moment that the alarms began wailing.

.-

.-

* * *

"That _motherfucker._"

'Motherfucker' was about the nicest term Anne Shepard found herself capable of enunciating as she stared down at the orange jumpsuit folded crisply on the seat, and she was not usually a very vindictive woman.

A moment later, Captain Bailey had activated the lock down alarms behind her.

A holo-cuff device topped the neatly folded clothes, the polished steel rectangle glittering like a gem as she picked it up and turned it over. There were no obvious marks of physical damage, eliminating the possibility that the man had simply smashed his way through it, but that was unlikely as is. Those things were built to withstand even biotic manipulation.

"Wherever he is, he's probably still in the building, commander. Detective Powell was just with him but, ah, you being alive kind of gave him a start." The older Citadel Security captain explained.

That got her attention, and before the captain could say another word, she was out of the holding cell and stalking down the hall accompanied only by her own anger. Her omnitool had been stolen – at least, more or less. A significant portion of its data had been duplicated and then subsequently overwritten; _very _important data. She hadn't been so upset since the Illusive Man told her straight up that he owned her ass, and that had been nearly a month ago.

"Security footage, Bailey, I want to know how he got out of there!" She called over her shoulder as she stepped up the pace. No way was he escaping again.

So blinded by her fury was she that when the door exiting the holding area didn't open as it should have, she nearly ran straight through it for lack of awareness. Her teeth ground each other as she swiped her omnitool over the control panel, mentally demanding her Spectre authority let her through. In response, the system taunted her:

_ACCESS DENIED, LOCK DOWN IN PROGRESS. PLEASE AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS._

A litany of curses succeeded it. She wasn't an angry woman; she preferred the term 'passionate'.

After a minute or so (at least in her mind; in reality, hardly a few seconds) she gave in to temptation, and bodily yanked her sidearm up. A few well placed bullets should have her through – Tali would have a fit if she had been there.

Fortunately for the computer system, Bailey was right behind her, and after pushing her sidearm down and with a few taps of his omnitool had the door unwinding. She glared and pouted a little, an affinity for destruction leaving her wont to shoot anyway. "My way was more fun."

"And my way actually _worked_, commander." Captain Bailey retorted.

"Spoil sport."

Unfortunately, the lobby of the station was hardly more conducive to her search than a locked door, and she muffled an exasperated huff; There were security officers _everywhere. _It was a sea of navy blue, from turians to salarians to asari, though least in presence were certainly human kind.

_Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you! _She thought as she began pushing her way through the crowd, cursing both the obstruction and how difficult it was being somewhat shorter than apparently every single one of them. Even her combat boots, which she had purchased custom made to boost her height nearly a full two inches (and under threat of an extremely painful disemboweling if the armorer ever spoke of it to anyone), did little for her. On a good day, she was five-foot eight-inches, _with _her boots on_._ Whenever she needed it the most, she could have sworn she shrunk to four feet tall. _Fuck genetics, too._

"Captain! _Captain!_" She called over the hubbub of alarm klaxons and general conversation. "Do you see him!?"

But the good Captain Bailey was nowhere to seen, and she could only guess he was off managing the crowd. That left her to her own devices, and before she could use any of them she knew she had to get higher.

The nearby desk which, unbeknownst to her belonged to the same officer her John Doe had asked for help from, served a suitable stool, and after a moment spent to regain her balance, she looked over the crowd, feeling all the while like a human periscope.

Turians really were at least sixty percent of the C-Sec forces, a factoid which remained evident as she looked over the sea of mostly gray skinned turians. There were the occasional white and pinks of female turians, the few heads of hair which undeniably belonged to humans (considering hair was a uniquely human quality), and specifically one specimen whose hair fell just a touch long of regulation – _There!_ It was him!

Her eyes set on the man, unwilling to let go especially as they locked eyes. Deep blues clashed with her own sea greens, but that wasn't top on her mind as she leaped from the desk, colliding full force with a number of C-Sec agents. "Fuck!" She cried, as she realized she soon lost the advantage of being able to see her prey.

That didn't stop her, though, and she pushed and tumbled her way through the crowd with all the grace of a stampeding bull, which was a genuinely accurate metaphor for the time being. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way!" She hollered haltingly, knowing full well how to project her voice. Oh, he would know she was coming. That's how she wanted it. She wanted him to feel the fear of his impending doom before she ground his stupid face into the wall. Having knocked him out once before, she was pretty sure it wouldn't be too much harder the second time.

Her saving grace came in the form of a red lock down warning above the main, and only, exit to the security station, a sliding door made of some form of transparent plexiglass. "Ha-ha!" She cried triumphantly as the man became apparent through the thinning crowd as he stood in front of the door, helpless to its security mechanism.

They locked eyes again, but she noticed something immediately discomforting – he was _not_ fearing death like he should be. In fact, he was smiling a bit, and she noticed with a sudden dread the card pinned in his hand as it waved him out of the station; the very door that was supposed to be locked – the very door that was soon happily locking _her_ in. Spectre status was infinite to all but the Citadel's own top level machinations – the incident with Saren had demanded it.

"You _sunuva_ – !" She snarled through the glass as she pounded her gauntleted fist against it. It shook and tremored, but refused to give. It took all the restraint she possessed to not shoot out the glass, though the quickly shrinking rational part of her mind told her it was more than likely bullet proof.

_That little shit is getting away, _again_! _Her mind accurately made note of. _"YOU!" _She yelled again, as if demanding he look at her. To her surprise, he did, with only the glass and twenty paces between them. A blacked out air car swooped in to land behind him. "I. WILL. FIND. YOU!" He would curse this day for the rest of his miserable life if she had her way.

But for all her fury did her, he grinned a grin full of alarmingly perfect teeth, gave her a mock salute, and stepped into the car.

… _Little shit._

* * *

_.-_

_.-_

_I still have no idea why I'm writing this, but hey, if you got through all of it, props to you. You're more resistant to bad writing than I thought._


End file.
